


hush to silence, by and by

by Trialia



Category: Goblin Market - Christina Rossetti
Genre: Archaic Language, Dancing, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Fruit, Gean-Cannah, Gen, Genderless, Identity, La Belle Dame Sans Merci, Loss of Identity, Magic, Memory, Pining, Poetry, Pre-Raphaelite, Sister-Sister Relationship, Slow Death, Victorian, Yuletide, Yuletide 2014, gender neutrality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trialia/pseuds/Trialia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!</em>
  <br/>
  <em>The latest dream I ever dream'd</em>
  <br/>
  <em>On the cold hill's side...</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	hush to silence, by and by

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neshnyt_Jackalsson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neshnyt_Jackalsson/gifts).



> Title from Christina Rossetti's _Songs for Strangers and Pilgrims_ , summary from John Keats' _[La Belle Dame Sans Merci](http://www.bartleby.com/126/55.html)_.
> 
> Transformation may seem rather like pining to death, but I chose not to include a 'major character death' warning in the tags as there is no MCD in the story's "present" time.
> 
> Very kindly and thoroughly beta-read by Skazka, with additional assistance from Lanna. Thank you both!

 

~_~_~_~_~

 

  What thinkest thee now, maidens once so bright and fair, now loveless, listless, lifeless on the hillside cold and chill?

  Thinkest thou at all on how deeply thy beauty must have paid, for that momentary pleasure? Dreamest thou? Methinks, perhaps, that in thy dreams thou livest once more in our world, and dance upon thy gossamer slippers beneath our hollow hills, the taste of our fruits in thy mouths, on thy skin, thy feet forever moving step to step as beneath thy tread, the world turns ever onward...

  Mayhap this is what drains thy life, for who can tell what dreams may be true and what truth may be false, once thine eyes have faerie dancing seen? Art able to think at all?

  Thou learn'st not, yet still thou comest to dance in our dreaming circles afresh, caught fast and held by what payment thou hast offered, once and for all time.

  Thou art but mere children in mine eye, and that of my people, and thy youth shall feed our own, offered up without knowing what you give, again and again and again.

 

  Didst thou, lady who gave thy golden hair as thy payment, not think on what could be done with such a token? On how strongly such a thing connects one to another? On the reasons any creature might accept such a payment for something so transient yet treasured? Thou gavest it away, but thou couldst not imagine what trouble it might gain thee in return. Too much a child, despite thy form. Innocents might yet be welcomed in thine own world, but for the troubles into which such as they are led, one by one, again and again down the countless years.

  So many faces have we seen, so many join our ranks or fade away, lain despairing on that hillside or below the brambles, beneath the morning dew, and empty all their hearts, all given away for base entertainments. We cannot treasure such as they, so fleeting and so mortal, so easily led and so quickly blown away by time.

  Golden curls mean little to a woman when the head that has borne them no longer thinks or dreams aught but of Faerie.

  They do not remember once they are part of our world. They recall not the way they were stolen, traded away, or even simply given, because their hearts are no longer human, and care naught for humankind once they have left it.

  Had thy sister not spared thee, thou wouldst yet no longer know her as thy sister, no longer care for thy faded trappings of humanity, fallen away under the pale moonlight whilst the fires of Midsummer Eve played in thy gaze.

  We all come to this. Whence I came myself I do not even remember; the years without number roll on, though the ever-changing seasons we eternally observe.

 

  Young women, eyes alight with their dreams of beauty reflected in our playthings, our fruits and temptations ephemeral, perpetually come to us wanting, desiring some small escape from their dreary daily lives, though many do not even know they wish it. Too many do not know not to trust us, no matter what they are told, or whether they have read in poems, or heard in songs, tales of Faerie and the goblins, tricksters and creatures all dwelling therein. Too many believe us a fairytale, and oh, what a word that came to be. A masquerade created by our own quarry to hide our depredations. They have ever seen our beauty and failed to realise this: beauty cannot exist without danger. The two are forever intertwined.

  They cannot see our true faces - for even fae sometimes have faces - without first joining us, if for a year and a day or a lifetime. Nevertheless, they do not comprehend that these two can also be one and the same; nor do they understand that they can never truly leave us, though they try for ever; our fruits, once tasted, can never be forgot, though the waking mind their dreams would deny. 

  Once thou hast a payment made for our transient yet everlasting bliss, thou canst not part from our dreaming. Thou mayest, in truth, win thyself free, but to win thyself free thou must yet comprehend that thou art not, that thy words and deeds have to the spirits tied thee. Too few may learn this. Too few recall who they once were.

 

  I do not sorrow for thee and others such, for each of thee hast thine own soul relinquished without pause, to the beauty thou believest thou sought. 

  This I know to be true: that thou wilt, all unknowing, recall us anon, and though thou mayest not return here a-purpose, if thou makest to escape thy past, be assured thy fate shall find thee. The fae may forget but do not let slip away those men and women captured once in our grasp; nor do we grant forgiveness lightly.

  We do not need quick humankind; we crave it only to continue our revels, and thy life itself shall enter into the spark of our need-fires, evanescent as the dusk, burning bright against the midnight sky.

  If thou comest within our remit to claim thy kin or beloved from their own human folly, be sure we shall recall thy foolishness when thou leavest, no matter if thou claim'st thy prize. No mortal who crosses us is ever forgotten.

  Thinkest thou yet, child who hast thy sister so lately reclaimed, on fruits red as a woman's lips and their sticky juice upon thy skin, in that bleak grey light before the dawn?

  I promise thee thy sister has such dreams abiding near her heart, though she will not tell thee so. Thou canst not live, and fail to remember thine intercourse with Faerie, though it be long ago and far away to thy mind, and the taste and scent of our fruits remember'd in dawnlight glimpses only, and quickly forgot.

  Thy sister dwells deep within her memories of Faerie in the darkest moments of night, and when thou art gone from her side, perhaps another path shall lead her on, to our traces yet laid, and thou as entirely forgotten as the whisper of thy name.

  Heed me well, child of mankind, whatever thou seekest in Faerie, whate'er thy reasoning to come nigh our lands:

  Thy dreams will tell thee true—to world's end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! I'm not used to writing in such archaic "high style", as you may be able to tell, dear recipient. I hope it's not too off-putting for you; the character decided on hir own voice for this piece, and was extremely determined about it. I attempted to bring the piece up to date with the poem itself at one point and was thoroughly thwarted by said voice. 
> 
> Fortunately, among the handful of non-Yuletide participants who were kind enough to give me their opinions about the piece, as well as my beta-readers, the majority also fell on the side of keeping the style as it is here. I hope that you like it. Happy Yuletide!


End file.
